


eyes sorrow blinded, in darkness unbroken

by wombuttress



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, Tranquil Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-25 02:28:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9798419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombuttress/pseuds/wombuttress
Summary: Ophelia Trevelyan lived twenty years in darkness and in silence, a failed mage, a dangerous corruption. Now the verdant horror has brought all her nightmares screaming back, and they are calling her their savior.A Tranquil Inquisitor, at its logical conclusion.





	

**Author's Note:**

> nothin explicit, but content warnings for references to past abuse, current abuse, serious mental illness, and General Fuckery
> 
> Alternate Title: Pretty Fucked Up About The Chantry Huh Guys
> 
> Alternate Alternate Title: I'm Pretentious!!!!!!!! And I Love Gimmicks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

_from these emerald waters_

 

At first there is the nothing, the sweet nothing which had never bothered you (much), and then there is _everything_ , so much, too much, it makes you want the nothing back.

The world is a swirling chaos of green and black and fear, and skittering _,_ what is that, that skittering? Why are you so afraid? You haven’t been afraid, not in twenty years, so why--?  


You run from the skittering out of nothing but wild animal instinct for surely you are an animal, surely only a beast would feel this much, only a beast would shriek and tear its hide like this.

You think you might die, and that would be preferable to the horror in which you find yourself. They warned you about this, this monstrosity, this _Fade,_ where your kind dare not tread lest you corrupt it further. Why are you here? Why are you here why are you here you _cannot_ be here this is blasphemy heresy _corruption_ —

The shimmering woman in white reaches to you, and you cry out with cracked lips, _Andraste, save me!_

 

 

_asunder, spilling light unearthly_

 

The Templar woman (she smells like dead air) demands and threatens, and when you have nothing to offer but your tears and desperation, she hits you, once. Not hard, but hard enough that you fall to the flagstones _._ __

The other one is kinder, and speaks softly, tells you that you are needed. That sounds right, you manage to think through the blinding storm of fearpainjoyrage, it is right that you are needed, it is right that you be useful. You have been useful for these past twenty years, you have not transgressed, you have been a good unmage, so why is this happening to you now? The soft one does not answer, but the Templar (she grabs you by the arm and it will bruise) yanks you up and takes you (as you have always been taken) towards the light and says that she will show you.

And in the end your pleas for mercy do not matter, and your shivering too-thin body is dragged out into the hideous sunlight, and you see it, the verdant horror in the sky. You fall to your knobby knees (it hurts) and the Templar lets you.

They say that it is _your_ fault.

Your fault your fault you did this as _your kind_ always has. Why did you walk in the Fade, why did you tread there, why did you do this to us _again_? No wonder we had to make you the way you were, you were safer that way, you belonged that way, you could not cause harm the way you were before, and now you are screamingly aware again and _look what you did._

And that is when you lock it all

_away_

deep within that silence where none may touch you.

 

 

_where mortal hand had lain_

 

 

They are saying that you are holy. They are saying that Andraste herself plucked you from the Fade.

The Mark of corruption upon your hand flares and you flinch—control, control, you must _control—_

You saw her, it’s true, she was there.  In cloth of starlight, she took your hand and guided you to safety, though you had gone astray, gone wandering in the Fade (and now you are again cursed, cursed to suffer, and to remember the nothing, remember that cloying nothing which they had called safety _),_ but Andraste, she saved you. You know this, it is true, as the Chant is true.

But if Andraste saved you, if you are holy, then She must have thought you worth saving, and that cannot be true. You who are cursed with the sin of magic, why should Andraste save _you,_ you who reek of that which burned her upon the pyre? (And it could not be, _could not be,_ that Andraste does not hate magic, because if Andraste does not hate magic, if you are not a cursed thing, then what was done to you was—)

Wound in the world that you are, you are wound and healer both, as your hand closes the demon-gulches before your very eyes. And the people cheer and name you _Herald_ and call you holy, blessed, Chosen.

(though when you walk among them, their wicked eyes avert from the sunburst on your forehead in a mockery of reverence)

Perhaps, perhaps—you think, your mind twisting and strangling—Andraste chose you, because She desired your redemption.

Have you not controlled your suffering? Do you not wake from your dreams (such dreams) yet unpossessed? Can you not become as stone, untouched within the crucible of flame?

You can, you can, you _have._ You are in control. You are not the weak mage (safer this way) that you had been at age fifteen, you are not that screaming girl, you are not her, that girl is dead—and you,  you are reborn in purifying fire at Andraste’s touch, and you are free, you are free, She has freed you.

You will lead them all to light.

 

 

_blessed are the righteous_

Cullen is weak, pathetic _(a Templar)_ ¸ you can smell it on him (as though he knows what you face, as though he could ever know that terror, as though he ever faced the penalty for failure). It is inscribed upon every line of his fair face and every hunch of his shoulders, you see it in his rolling steps and in his fearful grip upon his weapon.

You hate him you _hate_ him _youhatehim_ —

No. You must not hate him. It is not right. Andraste preached forgiveness, and you are Her Herald.  It is not right, for a thing like you to hate that which nobly stands between you and the good and innocent. You will not hate him. He has suffered, too.

You will be compassionate, as Andraste was compassionate.

(when you see the first granules of lust form in his eyes, your body revolts, the tattered remnants of your soul cry out in hatred, but you put it all away, for you know that it is wrong to hate him. You smile in his direction, because he has suffered, too)

_no rest in this world or beyond_

 

 

You hate to use your magic now, even more than you hate to use the Mark. At least that corruption you were given in service to Andraste, at least that corruption you can only use for good.

Your own magic feels like a cancer deep within you, gnawing at your vital organs and eating at your soul (and surely you still have one, if Andraste chose you). It manifested late in you, this cancer. You were fourteen, and petulant, and angry to be taken from your fine home and your indifferent parents, and you did not last much longer than a year before you were deemed as useless a mage as a daughter.

You have no talent for magic, and precious little instruction, but through the Mark your power has been augmented greatly. You suspect that should you push your limits, find the edges, you might unleash an ocean that none could overcome.

The thought disgusts you. You pray it never comes to that. You pray for many things, any moment you can spare (Andraste, guide me). Your hands are worn from praying.  


The magic is not nearly as bad as the dreams. You have not had a dreamless night since you were spat out of the Fade (the dread of them is enough to drive you to stimulants, potions, nighttime wandering) and though weeks and months have passed you cannot acclimate. The demons there whisper to you with their filthy fingers in your hair (but you must resist) and worse than the demons is the uncertainty, the shifting landscape formed of your own thoughts (bilious thoughts that they are), and the terrible lucidity of it all that you cannot escape.

But you will endure, as the Lady endured.

 

 _in blackest envy were the_ _demons_ _born._

 

 

Vivienne is

—beautiful, of course, but anyone could see that, smooth and dark and lovely like mahogany (nothing like you, pale thing that you are), every fall of silk and velvet draped along her curves (so elegant, refined) just so, in clothes that recall Circle robes only in that they flaunt their own dissimilarity (oh, that neckline)

—powerful, so powerful, so unafraid ( _danger,_ you think, _danger, danger,_ but you are hypnotized by the danger, entranced, oh, you cannot look away)

—wise, yes, wise, she knows the danger, she holds it at bay with her wicked-sharp control, they could never lock her up, they could never make her _safe_ (Vivienne has made herself safe, safe and fearsome all at once, how can she be so above it all, how does she do it)

—a valuable ally, you tell her, Please, come join us, please, do stay near me ( _perhaps it might rub off)_

_you will build a paradise on earth_

You do not trust the elf, and his unholy fascination with forbidden things (surely freedom warped him)

The Seeker is brash and harsh you still flinch at each look and word (but you do as she says, as the Inquisition desires, you would not dare anything else)

You like the dwarf well enough, but you don’t like his tone, when he asks if you’re alright (what sort of question is that?)

The elf girl, the archer, you accept, for you can see that Andraste is in her heart, and so too the Warden (may the Maker smile upon him), but for godless Qunari you have no use.

People flock to you, already, to join you in your holy mission. They come alone, in pairs, pledging service, pledging support. This is but the beginning, for you are yet small and trembling, but they come.

Good, you think, this can only be good.

_and down they fled into darkness and despair_

Of course you go the Templars. They will keep you safe. What could those rebel mages possibly do, in the face of this calamity? They’d make it worse—perhaps they’d even try and steal the power of the Rift themselves.

You must not associate yourself with them (you recall you had a friend in Ostwick who wanted to run away, who wanted you to run away with her because she was too afraid to run alone, and when she ran and  they found out, they whipped you so badly that you cried every night for weeks until you could no longer see any reason to cry about anything at all).

You are trembling as you enter their stronghold (but you are strong, you shall endure, Vivienne is by you and you can tell that she is pleased with your choice)

And though you are tormented by demons (such bright things) in the end you are victorious, and the Templars bow to you (you like that, them bowing, their heads bent before you, you could have them all destroyed on suspicion of corruption, you could do it, Andraste chose _you—)_

You smile beatifically, and declare that all sins are forgiven.

 

 

_in that baleful eye I saw_

The pale demon yet pursues you.

You have told it to go away (Cassandra agrees, it must go) (Vivienne does too) you have wanted it away from you (it helped you, but that does not mean it can be trusted) and you would kill it if you could (some heaviness yet stays your hand).

It won’t leave you alone.

You see it in the corner of your eyes, in the mirrors which you habitually avoid (you hate to see the mark, but to cover it would be a lie and you must be truthful), in the flickering shadows which dog your every step. You beg Vivienne to erect the proper wards against it and order Cullen to station Templars outside your door. You can’t let it get to you. You can’t let it speak.

“So bright, so much,” it says to you once, before you can stop it. “I can’t, I can’t…”

Nobody seems to remember it is there but you. They think you are losing your mind (losing their faith) and you cannot allow that, so you keep your fears to yourself (you must be in control) and watch it as it watches you.

“ _He_ is a spirit of compassion,” Solas says. “He is drawn like a moth to the flame of suffering.” His gaze is mercilessly pitying. “I believe he wants to help.”

You don’t know why the feeling that evokes in you is so strong (all your feelings are strong, they blur together like hazy colors, unidentifiable but for their intensity) but the rest of the day is nearly lost to containing it.

 

 

_on wings of death and suffering_

 

 

It is fitting that your enemy ought reveal itself to be a magister. One of the first, the defilers, the corrupted. It is right that the wicked mage who walked within the Golden City and ruined it ought to be opposed by you, you who are the good mage, Andraste’s Chosen who was plucked from that dark place by the Lady herself. You see now, Her plan for your, Her lovely symmetry in placing you in opposition to these monsters.  


Fitting, too, that you die in ice, while Andraste died in fire. Fitting that you freeze to death, you with your colorless eyes and pale hair, when Andraste had been ruddy and red-haired, alive and alight. You are Her bleak mirror, her wan reflection in this corrupted world, and as you collapse for what you hope is the final time, you are glad. At last there will be peace, there will be rest.

(but wake again you do, with Cullen’s eyes upon you and you—are— _glad--_ of course it is gladness, of course you are glad)

 

 

_you who have followed me into the heart of evil_

 

 

Skyhold is much like the tower you once lived (if living it may be called), a place of high cold stone. You take to wearing white, a gown of simple linen (like starlight), and barefoot, for you are humble before the might of the Maker

(you like to sit upon your throne, white-robed and humble, and order the deaths of the unrighteous, as it is right and good to do, for Andraste’s Chosen)

You have a statue of the Lady erected in the courtyard, so that She might inspire the faithful. The sculptor forms her face to resemble yours, and you think it insulting, that the Lady might be likened to a thing like you (but flattering, too, flattering to be thought so, and you let the sculpture stand for the people seem to like it). There are nights where sleep  eludes you (or you elude it, when the thought of sinking into that green eternity of dreams is too much, too dreadful) and you go out into the cold with your bare feet and watch her stone face bathed in starlight.

(you too are yet as stone)

The faithful come to you, in rivulets and streams, in droves. They have heard of your miracles, of the healing of the mage’s broken soul, the mark upon your forehead and the light within your eyes. They come to you and ask to kiss your hand, and this you allow. They come to you and ask to kiss your forehead, and this, too, you allow. They come away from you with stars in their eyes and hope in their eyes.

(their eyes and lips burn on your forehead, but there is no sanctity without pain)

 

_though darkness come upon me_

 

 

Cullen kisses you, and you allow it, going limp and pliant in his arms (for he has earned you, it is his right).

You drag your nails down his back (in passion—in ecstasy—though you are drawing blood, and later the mark will scar red and ugly) and he moans (he ought to scream).

He wraps around you afterwards, his arms like shackles, his body a shield (protective, protecting you, protecting them from you)

You are so lucky to be loved (yes, this must be love, he says you are not like the others, that you are special, that is what love is). Had Andraste not saved you, not purified you, you never would have earned this (of course a holy thing like love feels wrong to a cursed thing like you).

 

 

_let us not fall_

Vivienne laughs like music and serves you tea, delighted by the books you have brought her. You talk, of the Circle, of books, of magic.

She tells you how pleased she is with everything you are doing, how much of a model mage you are. (But is that a coldness in her eyes, a remoteness, a pity? She never looks at the brand upon your forehead, not for the briefest moment).

But though she may spurn you and the mark of weakness on your forehead (of course she would detest it, she is strong, she is not like you), she still speaks with you, makes time for you. When you ask for help practicing with the spirit blade (so that you may be strong and safe in battle, so you might not be so obviously a _mage_ ), she smiles and says of course, my dear, anything for you.

You are so glad that she is here, helping you be strong, showing you that it is possible to be strong (if you had been beautiful like her, perhaps you too would have had a lover at court and a villa to live in, perhaps if you had been more like her, they would never have—)

Vivienne laughs again and finishes an anecdote about a Templar friend of hers, and you laugh, too.

 

_let no soul harbor guilt_

Cullen (who loves you, surely) gazes agonized at the lyrium, and asks you (who surely loves him) what to do.

He wishes only to serve you (which is right, you are his Lady), wishes only to complete his duties (ever dutiful, the Templars) and is that not right? Is that not good? Such a good man is he, a righteous man, he wishes only to do right by you.

There is suffering writ in every line upon his face, in the clench of his fingers on the wood, in the hunch of his aching shoulders. How could you not take pity?

You cup his lined face in your smooth white hands (the left one twitches) and you smile with your thin lips and you forgive him, of course you do, of course it is not his fault that he is not strong enough. We are all imperfect creatures in the sight of the Maker, and if he needs this little thing in order to go on, who could blame him? No, there is no need to leave your service—you want him here, with you, serving you, how could you possibly do without your dear commander (who you command).

You’ll even fill the vial for him, hold it to his pulsing vein, and all the while talk softly in your quiet voice (quiet is your habit now, they did not like for your kind to raise your voices) that all is forgiven, all is well, that it is not his fault. He looks at you with his weary eyes and they are grateful, yes, he ought be grateful for your pity and your kindness (you recall receiving little, but the cycle of violence need not continue)

You watch your Templar lover chain himself in blood and lyrium, as you were chained, and you stroke his hair and murmur absolutions as he shivers in your arms.

 

 

_no mortal foot could tread_

 

 

You have lead your faithful to battle, armored in moonlight, spirit blade in your hand. They follow you and die for you in droves. Their holy lady weeps for them, mourns each of their souls as they pass into the Fade, but you press on, as is your duty.

These accursed ones have fallen to wickedness. You cut through them as they deserve, a beacon, a light, an inspiration to your faithful, a cleansing fire to those who dare corrupt the Maker’s earth. This is right and good, and you are filled with holy fervor.

And in the moment of your victory, you find that you are falling.

 

 

_from the fade I crafted you_

 

 

You now know the Fade for an old and dangerous friend. You are on your guard, but you are holy, blessed, and the demons of this place may not touch you and be suffered to live

The blurred inconstancy before you trembles, but you do not. The images before you waver, but you do not. The tendrils of darkness writhe, and you reject them. You plant your foot and the ground is solid, and you are unafraid.

There is a light in the distance, a familiar light, and warmth blooms in your chest—is that? Yes! It must be Andraste, who saved you once before, who has come before you once again—She will be proud, to see how far you’ve come, to see the good works you have done in Her name.

Wait—come back! Andraste, do not forsake me!

Come back!

 

 

_and to the fade shall you return_

 

 

and the truth did set the flame—

and if that was not Andraste and Andraste did not rescue you and you are not holy you are not chosen then it is all lies it is none of it true you were _wrong_

and if you cannot trust yourself (you knew you couldn’t) then how can you lead an inquisition how can you save them from the demons how can you return the world to rights when you are a cancer within it and if you were not chosen then a cancer is most truly what you are

you have not helped you have surely only harmed and any good you might have done is illusory, false, a foolish temptation meant to lead you into sin, how could you have fallen for it, weak creature, pathetic creature, monster, beast, corrupted thing,

for though the Chantry now accepts you as their herald you have _lied_ you have mislead them you must be punished you must—

no! you have been punished _enough_ you will not yield again you will not go back into that darkness you will not go back into the _nothing_ you will not let them force it on you never never never again you will die first you will eat your own heart first you have never been nothing _you never will be again_

for the people say that you are holy and who are you to deny them their savior who are _you_ to tell them they are wrong perhaps perhaps perhaps they are right and you are wrong (you cannot trust yourself, you know this) perhaps you _are_ their savior perhaps this is a test

(but it is too late and the truth has shattered you)

 

 

_none saw the black mark_

you have fallen miraculous through the fade once more and the people cheer, they kiss your hands and rejoice at your coming

(do they not know do they not see)

but no, they do not, and when your leaden tongue does falter and you deny it (you must be truthful) they do not believe you, your form is too obscured by light

(and deaf to your denials as they are you begin to see their truth, you see your holy shape reflected in their needful eyes, and you believe)

yes but Maker you are holy for them you must be holy and so you shall (and the truth is a cancer burning deep within you and surely the flames shall consume you as they consumed Andraste)

 

_and the light which once burned within him extinguished_

 

 

your templar lover goes to you and Maker you _hate_ him now that there is no reason not to (you are holy, all you do is holy, your hatred is holy)

his life is yours, he has sworn it, and what are you to do, seeing the blood on his hands (you could always see it it was always there but now it drips into your cornsilk hair as he touches it and you do not see why he should dare to sully something so pure)

you are the purifying fire, making sacred that which was profane

you are the scouring flail, forgiving sins through pain

(it is only right)

and if Andraste did not save you and if you are holy simply because you are and if you are not the vile corrupted thing that the Chantry has preached you to be (how could you be, you saved them) if you are only human ( _more than that)_ then how did they dare to touch you how did they dare to make you nothing how did _men like him_ dare anything

you bite his lip when he presses his kiss on you and it bleeds and he cries out in surprise and pain and you smile and say that you are merely glad to be alive

(he is yours to do with as you please)

his sins shall be forgiven, one way or another

 

 

_and never to rule over him_

you no longer avoid your magic. it is a part of you, holy like your anger and your hatred.

you are partial to fire. fire is easy, fire is simple, fire is one of the most common ways a mage child discovers their powers (though you recall you froze your bedroom in a pique and tried to claim it was a cold draft from the north). Andraste died in fire and you failed to die in ice and there is a certain pleasing symmetry in that. fire first is what they teach mage children to control, because it is so dangerous and so easy to acquire, and it is a good fit for one like you, who had so little magical instruction. you will never be like Vivienne, with her careful spells and perfect precision or like Solas with his intuition or Dorian with his brilliance. you can be nothing more and less than your true self

(it still feels wrong, like reattaching a long-rotted limb, but you no longer care)

one night when you have finished with your lover and he lies insensible in your bed you find you are too incensed to sleep you go out into the endless snows about your fortress and see how much fire you can make at once.

when you have melted all the ice from the mountain side (heedless of the flood below you’ve caused) and your long hair has been nearly all burned away, the sun begins to rise and your mana pool has barely been exhausted

powerful indeed is the maker’s greatest living servant

 

_and all around them echoed_

 

it is night, your fortress as quiet as it ever is, when you are walking alone through the courtyard and you see the statue. Andraste, serene and calm, bathed in starlight, her features just like yours

the demon which has never left you—though sometimes it is months between your seeing it—sits beneath it, gazing at you with its milky eyes

“It shouldn’t have been like this,” it says

(of course it shouldn’t have)

“I should have tried harder to help.”

(no one could have helped)

in all these years you haven’t killed it, no matter how many times you drive it away. now you only watch it, the fire-cropped strands of your hair blowing in the cold wind. it looks a bit like you, all thin and pale, and it disturbs you (and somehow doesn’t) that you are so very like this demon.

you blink and the courtyard is empty, the courtyard has been empty all night, save for you and andraste

you stand in silent vigil, curiously calm as you so rarely are, and as dawn breaks so does the realization blooming across your forehead, the truth, the piece you have been missing all along

you were not saved by Andraste and you are not her herald

you _are_ Andraste, the lady reborn, the redeemer, the lady of light come again

this is why you have burned all these years, for the flames of her pyre have licked at you across the centuries. it is _you_ who has carried the sins, it has always been you. you fall to your knees and you sob, so relieved to know your place, at last, at last, at last

(beacon and light shall you be)

 

 

_those who oppose thee_

 

 

the Chantry declares you a heretic and sets itself against you, but this is laughable. the Chantry is nothing, a toothless dragon, but you, _you_ are strong, you have the might of the faithful behind you. you are andraste reborn and you will bring redemption to this world of darkness

(how dare the Chantry judge you, the Chantry which kidnapped you as a child and locked you in a tower of rapists and murderers, the Chantry which nearly eradicated your soul, the very soul of Andraste herself how dare they _how dare they)_

your judgements on your sunburst throne grow sterner (for your will is the maker’s will) and your punishments harsher (as you too were punished harshly)

some say you have become irrational, that you are cruel. some leave your glorious inquisition. you mark them traitors and deserters, their retribution awaiting  


the weak and faithless of your inner circle begin to break away. they say vile things and you do not stoop to dissuade them. you are untouched by this betrayal. (of course you will be betrayed, as you were before, all those centuries ago)

you burn books. later, you burn heretics

your inquisition first shrinks, then grows. by trimming away the rot and refuse, you have allowed it to thrive. your armies swell with the ranks of the faithful, the devoted, the true. they call your name in ecstasy. these pilgrims are so many, so fervent, and your fortress in the sky nearly cannot hold them all  


but your highest halls have now grown empty. your Templar lover (terrified of you, as he should be, as you were once terrified) yet commands your armies, but it is Vivienne who now manages your diplomats and spies. (your spymaster would have assassinated you in the night, had you not removed her. your diplomat protested.)

there is a distance now between you and Vivienne, one she denies. yet as you mourn you cling. (no, you are not like her, but you do not need to be. it is not envy that afflicts you, but desire)

your inquisition powers on. your armies are victorious in the Arbor Wilds, the assembled might of Thedas at your back. (it does not surprise you that the gods of the heathen elves are false and wicked, and it does not surprise you that the witch betrays you and takes for herself that which you would have sooner destroyed)

it is not too long after that that you have your final victory. any who opposed you are struck to silence in the wake of it, the wicked magister struck down once and for all in your holy fire

the cheers of the faithful are deafening, riotous, and you are raised ecstatic above them

 

 

_an unquenchable flame, all-consuming_

you smash the remnants of the Chantry, an easy feat with the might you have assembled through your miracles. your order is the true Chantry now, with Vivienne as its Divine

(she wanted this, but not like this. one day you argue. you do not raise your voice, you are untouched, untroubled for the first time in years, though your heart aches to see her turn away)

(the next morning you find her gone, but it is pointless to mourn, for you are fire made flesh and she has always been a woman of ice)

you always did anticipate betrayal

nation after nation declares itself your enemy and names you a liar and a tyrant (this, too, does not trouble you)

more pilgrims arrive to your fortress by the day, pledge their lives and their souls to you. you bless them and you keep them and warn them of the storm to come

ravens bring you news of armies marching upon your fortress, upon your faithful. let them try, you think. against the maker, against your holy fire, they will be less than nothing

you keep Cullen close (though he cringes at your touch) and Cassandra (too stubborn by half) and sometimes still you catch sight of the pale demon in the corners of your halls, its pitying gaze like twin moons in the darkness (you leave it be and know not why)

you prepare for a siege. you will not be breached, not now, not ever again.

you go to the window and see smoke on the horizon, the smoke of a thousand campfires, of an army that is coming to take all you have wrought away from you

yes, let them come

(for you are what they have made you)

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://wombuttress.tumblr.com/)   
>  [my oc blog. more ophelia content here.](http://pile-of-dragon-filth.tumblr.com/tagged/ophelia%20trevelyan)


End file.
